


The Fountain

by weepingwillow



Series: Merlin Memory Month Fics [7]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, it went way longer than expected, sorry did not have time to edit this goddammit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 15:54:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10880085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingwillow/pseuds/weepingwillow
Summary: And, Arthur can see as he gets closer, from the stones in the centre of the clearing comes a fountain. It’s a rough hewn thing, and Arthur can’t decide whether it’s been there as long as time itself and weathered into its irregular shape, or whether it was simply inexpertly made. Whichever it is, it seems as dark as obsidian, and cracked at the edges. Arthur motions for the knights to stay back, and ties the reins of his horse to one of the last trees, whose shade he still hides beneath. He steps forward into the clearing. He can hear the trickle of the water bubbling away across the surface of the fountain. He can smell the pollen on the air. It’s like a spell.





	The Fountain

Arthur trots his horse through the forest. The knights follow at a respectful distance, but close enough that they can rush in at the slightest sign of an ambush; which is highly likely, when the Crown Prince of Camelot gets restless and wants to ride out unprotected.

 

Today, he takes a path directly south from the castle, through deep tracts of forest. He’s never come this way before and, by the looks of the tracks he follows, nor have many others. He’s glad for this, glad for the quiet, away from the churning masses of the city crowds, desperate to petition him. Arthur leads his horse down paths followed only by deer, paths he has to dismount and lead his horse along. He’s glad for the density of the trees, blocking the view back to Camelot. He’s glad to be able to forget, for a moment anyway, when he ignores the muffled curses and complaints of the knights behind him, what awaits for him behind the walls of the castle.

 

There’s a different sort of light coming through the trees, and Arthur wonders if he’s looped around, somehow, and is nearing the edge of the forest. The sun is obscured by the trees but, the direction Arthur thought he was going in, there should still be thick forest for a good few miles towards the cliffs. Intrigued, he keeps on course, towards the light.

 

The trees thin out, and Arthur frowns in confusion, wondering just how it was that he estimated his path so badly. He is about to turn around, find his way back into the quiet of the trees, when he realises that what he’s found is a clearing, the trees naturally giving way to rockier ground where their roots find no purchase. Instead, grasses cling to life in cracks between the dark stones. And, Arthur can see as he gets closer, from the stones in the centre of the clearing comes a fountain. It’s a rough hewn thing, and Arthur can’t decide whether it’s been there as long as time itself and weathered into its irregular shape, or whether it was simply inexpertly made. Whichever it is, it seems as dark as obsidian, and cracked at the edges.

 

Arthur motions for the knights to stay back, and ties the reins of his horse to one of the last trees, whose shade he still hides beneath. He steps forward into the clearing. He can hear the trickle of the water bubbling away across the surface of the fountain. He can smell the pollen on the air. It’s like a spell.

 

“Arthur,” Leon calls over to him, staying obediently beneath the trees, “I don’t like this. It reeks of magic.”

 

“I know,” Arthur says quietly, but he feels more than Leon. It’s magic, yes, but it’s old. Older than his Father’s war on the practice. Older than Good and Evil. It simply exists.

 

Arthur walks over to the fountain and crouches beside it, fingers tracing the line of angled stone down to the rocky floor. He has the disconcerting feeling of not being able to find the seam. Curious, he half crawls his way around the fountain, fingers trailing over the bumps and the divots in the stone. He traces the pattern of a white vein up the base of the fountain, looking up towards the lip.

 

And finds himself face to face with a boy.

 

Arthur falls back in shock, scuffing his hands against stone as he goes to catch himself.

 

“Hello,” the boy says.

 

“Shit,” Arthur says. The boy grins absurdly at that.

 

He’s about Arthur’s age, perhaps a little younger, and he’s dripping wet. It is to be expected, from a boy in a fountain, but the fact alone of a boy in the fountain in the middle of nowhere is enough to confuse Arthur. He has blue eyes that look like the sky, and dark hair that runs with the water down his head, trailing over cheekbones the likes of which Arthur’s never seen before. His mouth is brilliant in a smile, but when he lets the expression fade to confusion Arthur can see just how pink and full his lips are.

 

“Sire?” Leon calls, perhaps worried by the sound of his swearing, perhaps by the silence that followed.

 

“I’m fine,” Arthur calls back, “Stay there.”

 

“Sire?” the boy asks. Arthur sighs and nods.

 

“Yes,” he says, “I’m the heir to the throne of Camelot, and my father is very sick, so of course they’re incessantly worried about me.” He rolls his eyes. The boy seems to think a lot of that, grinning again. Arthur sits himself up properly, crossing his legs and brushing grit out of grazed palms. When Arthur looks up the boy seems devastated.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I made you get hurt.”

 

“It’s fine,” Arthur says, “More annoying than hurt, really.”

 

“Let me see,” the boy demands and Arthur, strangely for a crown prince, lets him. The boy tuts and takes Arthur’s hands in his own, brushing water over them with smooth thumbs. His touch sends sparks through Arthur’s skin, but after it comes a gentle, soothing feeling. Arthur gasps, and when the boy looks up at him he can’t seem to look away.

 

“I’m Merlin,” the boy says.

 

“Arthur.”

 

“Arthur,” Merlin says, and smiles again, “How lovely.” He lets Arthur’s hands go, and leans half out of the fountain to cup the side of Arthur’s face in his hand. It’s only then that Arthur notices his pale skin is completely uncovered, down to his waist at least. Merlin strokes at Arthur’s hair with his fingertips, around where a small gold circlet covers it. He does so with curiosity and, then, with reverence.

 

“How lovely,” he says again. He’s dripping water all over Arthur, but Arthur doesn’t care.

 

“What are you doing here?” Arthur asks.

 

“Waiting,” Merlin says.

 

“What for?” Merlin smiles a little, letting his fingers drop from Arthur’s hair to his jaw.

 

“This, I think,” he says softly.

 

“Oh,” Arthur says, mouth agape. Merlin, whoever or whatever he is, is so captivating that Arthur can’t draw himself away. Not for the distant stamping of hooves, not for Leon’s discrete coughing. When Merlin slips his thumb over Arthur’s bottom lip he is surprised, but he doesn’t draw back, still caught in Merlin’s eyes. He wants, more than he’s wanted anyone before - any of the knights, of the servant girls, the visiting princesses - and so when Merlin leans in and kisses him, Arthur wraps a mail-clad arm around his chest and pulls him closer.

 

Merlin leads the kiss, his tongue slick and elusive in Arthur’s mouth. When they pause - and it is a pause, they are far from finished - Merlin gasps for air and looks at Arthur with eagerness in his eyes.

 

“More,” he says. Arthur glances towards the edge of the clearing. He can feel the discomfort of the knights, it’s in the sound of their shufflings. He wants more, he wants to take Merlin out of his fountain and ravish him right here on the rocks, but he also wants for them to be all alone.

 

“Soon,” he promises.

 

He takes Merlin’s hands and he lifts him from the fountain. Lithe legs take shaking, fawn-like steps on the hard ground. Arthur takes off his cloak, chivalrous, and wraps it around Merlin’s shoulders to warm and dry him. The cloak flares out, caught by the breeze as Arthur turns the fabric.

 

It’s a thick cloth, dyed bright red, and Merlin holds it to himself like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. Arthur fastens the cloak with his own brooch, and he lends Merlin his boots so that the soles of his feet, soft from the water, will not scratch and tear on the hard ground. He holds Merlin close to himself as they approach the knights.

 

“We tell no one how we found him,” Arthur instructs the knights, using the first person plural to make them complicit in his acts. “You all understand? We found a peasant in the woods today.”

 

“Sire,” Leon says, and while Arthur knows that his men would follow him anywhere it is clear that some of them are unnerved by the situation, suspicious of faerie groves and deceitful roads. Arthur can only trust that once they are back in the city their fear will fade. Because he has to have Merlin. He has to take him from the forest and into his castle, has to keep him.

 

He has Merlin sit side-saddle just below his horse’s withers on the way back to the castle. He spends most of the time with his arms around Arthur’s neck, clutching onto him for dear life, but when the castle comes into sight he seems to gain courage and grips onto the horse’s mane, looking out ahead of them.

 

“This was never here before,” he says softly. Arthur nods a little.

 

“My father built this city. Were you- Did you live here before then?”

 

Merlin shrugs a little.

 

“I don’t remember properly. I mostly remember the fountain.” Arthur tucks his chin over Merlin’s shoulder and rides on. He likes to have Merlin close to him, even if thick layers of mail and leather separate them.

 

\---

 

There are meetings with Arthur’s father, there are explanations, and plenty of confusion on Uther’s part. But in the end, he cannot see any fault in Arthur’s wish to take Merlin into his employ, and Arthur rushes Merlin up into his chambers, half carrying him most of the way.

 

“You must be so cold,” he says, “You can get into the bed, Merlin, get warm under the furs.” Merlin stands, filled with wonder, in front of the fire. He holds his hands out and he warms them under its light.

 

“I’m used to the cold,” he says, and he looks at the fire again. “It’s hot, like you. It’s lovely.”

 

“That’s the only word you know, huh, Merlin?” Arthur teases. Merlin grins and goes over to him where he sits on the edge of his dining table, watching. Merlin very deliberately lets the cloak, still the only thing that he’s wearing, slip down over one shoulder.

 

“Amazing, incredible, wonderful-”

 

“All words for me?” Arthur jokes.

 

“Yes,” Merlin says, and how serious he is makes Arthur’s heart skip, “All for you.”

 

Merlin reaches out for Arthur’s shirt, the mail lost as soon as they arrived. He pretends to loosen already open laces.

 

“Do you feel it too?” he asks, “Do you-”

 

Arthur takes hold of Merlin by the front of the cloak and pulls him to stand between his knees.

 

“I do. Oh, very much.”

 

“Take it off,” Merlin says of Arthur’s shirt, “I need to- I have to-”

 

In one quick movement the shirt is off. Merlin twists until the cloak drops from his hips, brooch falling to the floor with it, and Arthur gathers Merlin up in his arms. For a moment, it’s enough; Arthur’s warm skin against Merlin’s cold, Arthur’s strong chest against Merlin’s narrow one, arms held around one another as they kiss. Then all of a sudden Merlin’s teeth graze Arthur’s lip and it isn’t, Arthur’s surging up to stand and take control of the kiss, Merlin’s trying to rub his hardening dick against rough cloth.

 

They fall roughly onto the bed, on top of soft pelts and woollen blankets. Merlin wriggles beneath Arthur, panting already as Arthur finishes undressing.

 

“Have you done this before?” Arthur asks as he tugs his second ankle free.

 

“I don’t remember,” Merlin confesses. It’s clear that Arthur’s been here before, the question unnecessary. He licks at Merlin’s nipple, sends his body into a sharp curve.

 

“You’re beautiful,” Arthur says, and he sets out to kiss every inch of Merlin’s skin, wrist to throat to ankle. By the time he’s finished, Merlin won’t complain, but he does feel desperate, his stomach wet with how much he’s leaked.

 

“Do you want to-?” Arthur asks, waving his hand, and Merlin seems to get the point, spreading his legs as the start of his answer.

 

“Yes, yes I do,” Merlin says once he’s found his words, but Arthur is already getting the oil to open him. He gasps and he cries, and everything out of his mouth is so pretty that Arthur wants to kiss him, but can’t, for fear that he’ll stop making the sounds.

 

Then Arthur lies back in the furs, and Merlin slides down over him with a final, silent gasp, his chest stained red with the heat of it, tipping his head back into the cold night air. He moves slowly over Arthur, thigh muscles tight and straining, stomach heaving with his breath. Arthur can’t look away, but can barely hold himself in at what he sees.

 

They come together at the end, Merlin folding down to kiss Arthur, deep and endless as Arthur comes inside him and he follows, filled with the heat of Arthur, drunk on it.

 

\---

 

Merlin wakes first in the morning, so happy at first that he fails to notice the pain. Arthur’s fingers are in his hair, his whole body splayed over Arthur’s, covered in the mess from last night with blankets strewn over them. Merlin is too hot, there, and he moves slowly to find a draft, and to avoid waiting Arthur. His fingers ache, so he rubs them together.

 

And then he screams.

 

Arthur works quickly. He calls for the servants, to draw up a bath. A cold bath, if it will make it faster. As soon as there is any water in the wooden tub he sits Merlin in it, ladles it over his skin. Slowly, the black cracks that have formed overnight in his fingertips fade.

 

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers.

 

“Hush, love,” Arthur tells him, “Later.”

 

\---

 

The water helps, but not nearly enough. Arthur cannot keep a bath of water constantly in his chambers, nor can he keep the castle as cold as Merlin would like. He would die. And Merlin refuses to spend the night anywhere but curled next to Arthur’s side. The happiness that swells in his heart when he lies next to Arthur is enough to kill the pain, even if only for a few hours.

 

Sometimes Arthur lies in the bath with him, but Arthur cannot sleep for fear of drowning, and even his heat in the water makes it worse. The cracks come back deeper each day.

 

It is six months later, the black lines bordering on Merlin’s torso, that Arthur decides that he can watch no longer. He helps Merlin cover each of the cracks with fabric, a scarf hiding the final tell-tale signs of magic. He helps Merlin onto his horse, where he sat all those months ago, and he buries his lips in Merlin’s hair and kisses him at the back of his head. Arthur hides his tears in Merlin’s hair and refuses to tell him where they’re going.

 

They ride for most of the morning before a valley opens before them. A ring of mountains to the opposite side and, before them, a lake.

 

“No,” Merlin says, and he turns on the horse and grabs hold of Arthur and clings to him, “No, Arthur, you can’t make me. I’m coming back with you.”

 

“You’ll die,” Arthur says weakly.

 

“You don’t know that,” Merlin asserts. Arthur smiles at his tenacity, and holds him close.

 

“You’ll be in so much pain, my love.”

 

Merlin pulls back and looks at Arthur, his broken heart visible in the shards in his eyes.

 

“Is this what you want?” Arthur shakes his head immediately.

 

“But here I can visit you. Here you can be safe. I’ll build a hunting lodge on the shore, and I’ll come to you. Every month. And for the rest of the time you can swim in the lake and recover. There’ll be fish, and birds, and interesting things I promise.” Merlin swallows hard and he pushes himself from the horse. Arthur dismounts after him, and finds Merlin staring into the distance. His smile strengthens a little.

 

“You’ve seen, then.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“The reason why I chose this lake.”

 

“The view.”

 

Arthur turns and looks with him. They can see, so small it looks like a picture, the turrets of Camelot rising in the distance.

 

“And I’ll be able to see where you are, too,” Arthur promises, “I’ll walk up to the battlements and I’ll look every day.”

 

Merlin turns to him and he kisses him, hard, chaste.

 

“I wish it was different,” he tells Arthur.

 

“Yes, so do I,” Arthur says. Wordlessly, Merlin starts to undress. His movements are stiff, and as he uncovers more and more skin Arthur thinks that to touch him would be to break him, to snap each of the cracks and have him fall to Arthur’s feet as dust. Merlin kisses him once more, this one lighter, and he holds Arthur’s hand until the last possible moment as he steps into the lake.

 

Merlin wades out until he is waist deep, and then he turns. He looks about to run to Arthur, but then he manages to hold himself. His cracks are fading already.

 

“In a month?” he calls.

 

“One month, love,” Arthur shouts to him. Merlin stands there, watching, for another moment. Before he turns, and drops beneath the surface. Arthur can just see the ripples as he swims away.


End file.
